


Forever My Father

by Heavenlea6292



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst, Canon Compliant, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Pre-Canon, Weechesters, young john - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:22:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1793611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlea6292/pseuds/Heavenlea6292
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fathers are complicated, and no one quite knows that better than the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost in Combat

_You don't have to be so scared_   
_You don't have to go tonight_   
_I just need to hold on tight_   
_For one hell of a ride_

Henry Winchester knew how to do a few things in life. He knew how to do sums, complex math and all sorts of strange things with scalpels. He knew how to read and write dozens of languages, he knew how to cast spells and summon demons and spirits, he knew how to do origami (but he never told anyone but Josie and Millie) and he knew how to be a father.

His father had taught him how in the very best way, by being there and doing everything that fathers did. His father told him that there were two joys in his life- his family and the Men of Letters; and when he came along, his father had the best of both worlds. Even as a child, he could remember his father sitting with him in his bed, his long legs stretched out and hanging over the edge of the bed, a file folder sitting in his lap as he wove incredible tales of far off lands and magic that a child could never imagine.

There was never a day that his father didn’t lift him up in his arms, didn’t lift him up to the heights that he believed he could fly to. Henry never had to long for love. He never had to search it out in the arms of someone he didn’t know, never had to turn to someone else for the affection he needed to grow. He had it in his father, his mentor; and he blossomed into a man under such tender care. His father never begrudged him his love of books and fantasies; he never scolded his son for the stars in his eyes. His father loved him; wholly and completely.

And so, when he had his own son, his little Johnny, he wanted him to feel the same love that he did. He held him close when it was storming; he kissed his head and ruffled his hair. He took him fishing and told him all the same stories that his own father told him, quiet whispered promises of a bright future filled with magic and adventure. And when his son’s beautiful bright eyes stared up at him filled with wonder, little gasps and clapping hands; he knew now what his father felt when he looked at him. The unabashed, pure need and desire to be close to his child, to make that look on his face appear again and again as he taught him the mysteries of the world.

When he was away, he always made tiny little paper birds for Johnny when he had to stay late at the Men of Letters office, in red and blue, and he always set them on Johnny’s bedside table when he finally made it home. Johnny loved them so much, and it was Henry’s way of telling him that he was thinking of his little boy. He never wanted Johnny to know a day of sadness, he never wanted a day to go by that his son didn’t know how much he adored him. Once, he was daydreaming while working on a new spell and said, “I wonder if there is a spell that could make a tiny paper bird fly? Johnny would like that.” The Grandmaster didn’t like that much, but Henry still looked for such a spell. What harm could it do?

He imagined that Josie had heard enough about Johnny, their conversations often veering into Henry’s excited ramblings of Johnny’s latest escapade; proud proclamations of his son being a natural Man of Letters, how he’d scribbled an Aquarian star (or so it looked) on the wall of the kitchen, and how he couldn’t be angry with the boy because he showed such promise. He’d excitedly tell her about the fish Johnny caught, and how it was ye big (and slightly exaggerated) and how he was such a little trooper when they gutted the thing, how he was sniffling but he never cried. Josie would always smile and nod politely, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty for his excitement or every one of Johnny’s tiniest achievements. He doted on his son, just as a father should.

He never imagined that after he wound up that little music box to sing his son to sleep that it would be the last time he saw him, never in a million years.

And his heart broke, knowing what his son had become, what his son had suffered and felt; that he wasn’t there to hold him and tell him that the world is not a hateful place, that war always ends, that even when it all seems dark and horrible that there is always light, if one knew where to look.   
It burned him to see the eyes of his son staring back at him at faces that were so unfamiliar; sad, pain-filled eyes, harsh eyes, hateful eyes, hard eyes.   
It burned him to know that those eyes do not just happen, that they are made to lose their glassy sheen, they are made to be set half-shut out of fear and anger and sadness for a broken world.

He wanted to tell them that he knew how to be a father. He just never got the chance.


	2. Lost In Grief and Anger

_And we lost it all just now_   
_To the nights that left you out..._

John Winchester knew how do a few things in life. He knew how to tear a car engine apart and put it back together, and he knew how to fix just about any ill in any vehicle. He knew how to make food stretch and he knew how to shoot a gun; he knew how to crawl away from combat and he knew how to forget. He knew how to appease his mother and avoid his stepfather; and he knew how to be a father.

He knew that a father was a man that was always there, a man that never ran away and disappeared, leaving his child with nothing but a leather journal and half-remembered memories. A father was the man who taught you everything you needed to know about life, a man who taught you to be tough and how to survive.   
And the man who left little blue and red birds on his dresser, the man who bought him a music box and whistle that tune when he ate breakfast and read his paper was not that man. The man who had done those things had disappeared into the night, and he could not possibly be a father.

A father was strong. A father was strong enough to stay and raise his child.

And oh, he wanted to pass this knowledge onto his own son, when Dean was born. He wanted to show his son how to be strong and smart, how to be quick on his feet and how to be a man. His heart swelled with pride when Dean hit his first ball at a T-ball game, the way his little legs trip-trotted to first base, his smile so big as he waved to his mom and dad in the stands. He was proud of his little man, always obedient and quick to follow orders, always helping out and being cheerful. Even though there were times when it was just Dean and Mary, John was proud- he was raising his son right.

And then came Sam, and six short months later, Mary was gone.

And suddenly the lines that John had set in his own mind began to blur along with his wife’s memory. What was he going to do without her guidance? He couldn’t raise his children alone, children needed mothers just as much as they needed fathers. Without Mary, he had no idea what to do. And as a hidden, secret war descended upon his and his sons heads, he slowly forgot how to be a father and how to be a commander, a general, a soldier. He was hard on his sons, but he loved them- he was hard on them because he loved them, didn’t anyone see that? Couldn’t his sons see that? He needed them to be tough, hard, to understand the realities of a life at war. They had never chosen that life, but when duty calls, they had to answer. Life is unfair. Life is cruel. Life steals and takes and gives only a few glimmers of happiness. That was the way of the world, and they had to learn young.

But somewhere along the way, he lost Sam to the lure of a normal life. And though he was furious and hurt and he tore apart the cabin for days after Sam had left, he was proud. His son had chosen a path and fought for it- he hated the path, and he hated the betrayal, but he couldn’t help but be proud. There was only one thing that John was proud of Sam for, and that was it; being brave enough to actually say it to his face instead of running away, like he had as a child. But when he laid in bed, listening to Dean’s stuttered breathing as he fought tears; John could feel the walls closing in.

Was this why his father bolted for the door? Because of this constricting feeling, this feeling of rage and anger and contempt for his oldest, because he didn’t leave? Would he always be trapped by his children?

So the next morning, only one short month after Sam had left, John left too. He’d crept silently out the door, starting his truck and swerving out of the parking lot of the sleazy motel, pretending he couldn’t see his half-dressed and dazed son running across the parking lot after him, yelling for him. And he didn’t come back. He hunted and kept in touch, but in the two years that Sam was gone, John could count on one hand the number of nights he and Dean shared a motel room. He told himself it was because he was hot on the heels of the Yellow Eyed Demon, but that wasn’t it. He didn’t want to have those sad green eyes always staring at him; he didn’t want to worry about a second pair of legs keeping silent on the hunt. He worked better alone, and if he knew his son- it was only a matter of time before he went and fetched his little brother, just like John wanted him to.

The closer he got to the Yellow Eyed Demon, the more he realized that maybe he could be a father to Dean that maybe he could fix things with his oldest, but he would never be able to look at Sam the same way again.   
He wasn’t even sure if he was completely his son, anymore. Demon blood? Special child? He couldn’t help himself, in some ways; he blamed Sam for it all. If it wasn’t for Sam. If Sam wasn’t chosen. If Sam didn’t cry. If, if, if.

But then, the Accident.   
Dean, critical condition.   
Dying.   
Don’t know if he’ll pull through.

_Dean is comatose and you’re worried about the Colt?_

This was his chance, to be a father again. To do what was right, to fix all the past damages. And as he saw his son’s eyes open, beautiful green eyes filled with confusion and fear, he wanted to tell him that everything was gonna be okay. That he fixed it, because he was the father and that was his job. But he couldn’t. All he could do is whisper in his ear and fade away, leaving his son with nothing but fear and guilt, but how was that any different from the rest of his life?

He didn’t even say goodbye to Sam. He didn’t want to. Sam, more than Dean, reminded him of his failures.

As his heart began to slow and he fell to the floor, he looked at the light glinting off the blue tinted floor with a stifled laugh.

He knew how to be a father, he really did. He just never got the chance.


	3. Lost In The Past

_So we'll let this go somehow_   
_But you're gonna be proud_   
_So proud..._

Dean Winchester knew how to do a few things in life. He knew how to tear apart a gun and clean it in less than 10 minutes, he knew how to rebuild a car from the ground up, he knew how to play guitar. He knew how to be a big brother, he knew how to cook the best damn burgers in the world, he knew how to make things work to his advantage, and he knew how to be a father.

He knew that a father was the one who trained you, shoved you in the dirt and made you crawl until you didn’t think you could crawl anymore, and then made you crawl more. A father was the one who taught you which guns were best for what hunt, how to hustle pool, how to play poker and blackjack and how to bluff your way out of anything. A father trained you up. A father made you sweat, made you bleed, and then shoved you in the shower. Fathers were drill sergeants who taught you the way of the world by example. The world will beat you down. The world will smack you around. Life will be cruel and unfair and take everything from you, but you have to get up and keep going.

He had a closet full of skeletons, all rattling at the handle and screaming doubts at him, reminding him of what a terrible son he was, how if he could just work faster, work harder, eat less, do more, maybe he would be perfect. Maybe he would get the approval he was so desperate for. Maybe if he weren’t such a fuck up, he wouldn’t have to explain his father’s rage away to his brother; maybe Sam wouldn’t cower in the presence of their father. Maybe Sam would be able to look to Dean as an example of what to do rather than what not to do.

And it never stopped, never waned, the awareness that he was never good enough for his father, his hero, his mentor. He could never move fast enough, he could never hear well enough, he could never get Sammy to just fucking listen, and soon Dean longed for the days of Sam’s trembling and cowering in exchange for his screaming and fighting. And his father just became angrier, harsher, more critical.

And suddenly, he was alone. Sam ran for the door and never came back in, John ran for the door and never came back in, and all Dean had to cling to was flat motel pillows and bottles of Jack. A father was the one who told you that you have a duty, you have a job, you can never leave- and then, he left. A father left you alone in a world that is too big and scary for you, and he told you to stop being such a child.   
Even though you are a child. You know- _his child_.

And then he suddenly reappears and takes charge and knocks you down, over and over and over. And Dean finally realized…maybe this wasn’t what fathers are. Maybe fathers weren’t supposed to be like this. Maybe a father was a man who tucked you in and kissed you goodnight; maybe a father was a man who taught you how to drive and how to hit on a pretty girl in your chemistry class.

Dean knew, when he heard his father’s voice say I’m proud of you son, that it wasn’t him. And suddenly, he was angry. How pathetic was it that he knew a demon possessed his father because he was too nice? Too supportive, too loving? How pathetic was it that he knew that it was a demon, but he wanted to drop the gun to the floor and hold onto his father and cry?

Lying in the car, in pain, as his father bellowed at Sam for choosing Dean, choosing family over the vendetta that started before Sam could even remember, he felt a twinge of satisfaction. Sam had learned what Dean thought he never could. Sam had learned that their father wasn’t always right; and he had learned it young- the way Dean never could.

Then, glass. Blood. Pain. Darkness.

And suddenly, gasping, burning light.

A secret. A horrible, terrible secret and the guilt of his father’s death.

When Dean loses it all and crawls to Lisa, he tries to relearn what a father is. He tries to remember that a father isn’t supposed to yell and throw things; he isn’t supposed to insult as the first reaction to failure.   
A father watches horror movies and lets his son grab at him when he’s afraid, a father sneaks a few sips of beer at a barbeque when mom isn’t looking, a father is the one who gives advice and takes care of everything.   
And he learns.

Until danger (and Sam) come a-knockin’.

He slowly transforms into his father as the world gets more and more dangerous and Lisa and Ben get closer and closer to the edge. Then a hunt goes wrong, he’s infected with Vamp blood, and he just can’t control it.   
And he becomes his father.

When Lisa ends it, he wants to sob into the phone that he knows how to be a father. He just never got the chance.


	4. Lost In The Future

_And I just needed you to lift me up_   
_Like you did when we were younger_   
_When the lightning and the thunder_   
_had me clinging to your heart_

Sam Winchester knew how to do a few things in life. He knew how to write a 5 page essay and research for a hunt on 2 hours of sleep, he knew how to brew coffee like espresso, and he knew how to identify a case as paranormal. He knew how to sweet talk his way in and out of any situation, he knew how to hustle darts, he knew how to break into and hotwire a car, and he knew how to be a father.

The way he figured it, all he needed to do was take every one of his father’s parenting techniques and just…do the exact opposite.

John Winchester’s parenting was not really parenting at all. It was screaming, bellowing, ordering around, intimidating, beating when he felt the situation call for it- all things that Sam learned quite young was not what a father was supposed to do.   
When he was in second grade, they had to do this stupid little project for each member of their family, where they answered a whole bunch of questions and made a little book. It wasn’t lost on Sam that his family tree was actually a family stick- a father, a brother. But when he got his “All About Dad” paper back, he saw red pen. Red ink circled around the question “When my Dad is mad, he…” and Sam’s answer “hits me and dean”. He stayed after class, telling the teacher about his father’s parenting, and they wouldn’t let him get on the bus. They wouldn’t let Dean walk him home. They just kept him there and kept him there until John finally answered the phone and stormed into the school, raising hell and dragging his sons out behind him.

They never went back.

And Sam learned that he wasn’t allowed to talk about his father in school, that he wasn’t supposed to tell the truth about him. A father was someone you lied about, pretended he was better than he was. A father was someone you never, ever tattled on. Even when they hurt you.   
A father, according to Sam’s experience, was someone who blamed his children for everything and punished them for it, even if he found out it was his fault. A father was the one who taught you not to wet the bed by beating you. A father was the one who told your brother that he was stupid, lazy, and irresponsible, even when he was trying his best. A father was someone who didn’t care if you could barely breathe, you were going to finish training whether you liked it or not. A father was someone who taught you the importance of eating quickly by giving you five minutes to eat and then snatching the plate away as soon as those five minutes were up. A father was someone who ruled your life with an iron fist and smacked you down the minute you questioned anything.

And when he finally got big enough to start fighting back, big enough to hold his own, he ran as far away as possible, and didn’t look back. And he fell in love with a pretty girl who looked like his mom, who was going to be a nurse and wanted a white picket fence, a 401k and 2.5 kids. And he dared to dream of his life with her, and with their children.

Jessica liked to plan things, and planning things had worked out pretty well for her thus far. Apparently, Stanford was part of her big life plan and she was right on schedule. If they stuck to her schedule, Sam would be a father just after he passed the bar and they would be picking places out in an upscale New York suburb. She had names picked out and everything, two girl names and two boy names, already perfectly planned to sound good with the last name “Winchester”. And he dared to dream of being a father, with his perfect wife and perfect children, in their perfect house with their perfect life.

And in his dreams, he imagined two cute little boys, four years apart, with bright green eyes like him and perfectly curly blonde hair like her and he did all the things that a father should do. He read them bedtime stories and tucked them in and reassured them that there was, in fact, no monsters under the bed or in the closet or anywhere for that matter, and he never let them touch guns. He dreamed that there was never an argument, never a fight, not one time that he raised his voice above a normal talking volume at his children. He dreamed that he was all that a father should be: kind, supportive, gentle, loving.

The anti-thesis of his own father.

He clung to these dreams when the night terrors crept in, when memories of a childhood best forgotten woke him drenched in sweat and shaking, Jessica’s touch too hot for his freezing skin. And she always soothed him with reassurances that he was okay, that he was safe, that everything would be okay.

And then his life plan, Jessica’s life plan, crashed around him.

Another fire, exactly 6 months after his 22nd birthday. One that took her away from him and thrust him right back into his father’s web.

He held a bouquet for flowers, tears rolling down his face as he stared at a headstone for someone too young, too beautiful to die.

He desperately wanted her to know that they could’ve had a life, that he knew how to be a good husband, that he knew how to be a good father.

He just never got the chance.


	5. Lost in Blood

_Did you know that you're my heart_   
_And it hurts to be apart_   
_And this cut it hurts so deep_   
_So sing me to sleep_

Adam Milligan knew how to do a lot of things in life. He knew how to cook and clean and keep a house looking nice, he knew how to hold down a part time job and still make high honors every semester, and he knew how to ride a bike with no hands. He knew how to pitch a perfect curve ball, how to do laundry, how to make a girl blush and how to be a father.

Adam Milligan had known a few well-meaning boyfriends in his time- men who played catch with him only to shake their hands out in pain after 10 minutes. Men who tried to teach him how to work in the garage that held nothing but boxes with tools that they had brought, men who tried everything to get him to bond with them. The problem was, Adam wasn’t particularly interested in what they wanted to teach him, and frankly he wasn’t interested in them, either.

He supposed that these men were trying to teach him what a father was, but he was seriously uninterested in fathers. He’d never seen a real father in person, not as far as he knew. He’d heard fairytales of these so-called fathers, how they would take their sons to baseball games and help cook dinner and tuck them in at night, but as far as he knew they were just that- fairytales. He was more interested in what was real and there, his mother, the only parent he’d ever known and the only one he really ever cared to know. He figured that all those fairytales about fathers were actually just stories about mothers, where someone got it mixed up. Seemed to him that mothers were the ones who did all the things that fathers were supposed to do. His mother taught him how to stand up for himself and others, she taught him honesty and integrity and she gave him a good work ethic.

But, above all that, his mother gave him enough love for two parents, while working full time.

And when a man suddenly showed up on their doorstep with a mitt and ball in his hand, claiming to be his father, he laughed and told him he already had a father and a mother in one and slammed the door. His mother asked him who it was and Adam shrugged, muttering, “Some dude who thinks he’s my father or something.”

And it was his father.

His mom took his hands and explained the whole story, he shrugged and told her that he wasn’t his father. He didn’t want a father. He didn’t need a father. In fact, he’d be thrilled if the guy just left the mitt and hit the road. Hehad her, and that was all he ever needed in the world. But he couldn’t refuse the sadness in his mother’s eyes, and he learned what it meant to be a good son- to be a good son, he needed to pretend that this man was something to him, because by biology, he was. And Adam figured, what could it really hurt, spending some time with the guy?

So he went to the baseball games, he did the stupid little father son activities, and he didn’t really mind this man, John. But John never broke his disillusionment with fathers.

To him, John was just some guy who showed up every couple of months and on his birthday to take him to baseball games and pretend he was being a parent. Adam wasn’t stupid- he’d figured out long ago that John’s little outings were just to assuage his guilt for leaving him and his mom to fend for themselves, and he wondered- were there other women and sons out there, just like him and his mother, that John Winchester had left in the billowing dust of his pickup truck?

He laughed when he was 16 and John suggested him taking his last name. Why would he want that last name? He wasn’t a “Winchester”, like John keep claiming he was.

He was a Milligan. He was raised Milligan, taught Milligan and loved Milligan. He didn’t care what genetics or legal standings said. He wasn’t John Winchester’s “boy”.   
He wasn’t a “Winchester”.   
He was Adam Milligan, son of Kate Milligan. The woman who taught him everything he knew, from how to tie his shoes to how to whistle Beethoven’s 5th to how to be a father. She taught him everything he would ever want to know. She taught him that a father was someone who should stay no matter what happens. A father is a person who should be there every day, not just birthdays or when he’s “in the neighborhood.” A father is someone who should take his job seriously, who should treasure his child and support them. A father was someone who didn’t just abandon his family in favor of driving aimlessly around the country “selling things”.

When Adam heard his mother’s screams for him in the middle of the night as those bastard creatures attacked her, he tried to fight them. But a baseball bat, even with his swing, was no match for the superhuman strength of…whatever these things were. One of them turned on him and tore him apart, and in his dying breaths, he imagined what it would’ve been like to grow up, go to college, and start a family.

What it would’ve been like if he wasn’t choking on his own blood in the middle of his mother’s bedroom floor. He thought to himself that he would’ve been able to give a kid a chance at a normal, healthy life, one where he didn’t have to tuck himself in or cook his own dinner because even though his mother cared, she just had to work so damn hard.

He knew how to be a father. He just never got the chance to.


End file.
